The Masterful Mr. Montague (34 page)

The others absorbed that; Montague glanced through the open doorway, and from their expressions he knew both Gibbons and Foster were taking mental notes. They were learning the ways, as they should.

Slocum and Reginald retreated to the outer office, leaving Montague to repeat his words to himself.

Although he felt rather like a terrier must when wanting to maul a bone, he’d reached his present eminence in the fraternity of men-of-business in the great City of London precisely because he did know when he could push, and when pushing would be counterproductive.

Ultimately, if Millhouse couldn’t induce the earl to part with the required name, Barnaby would no doubt mobilize his father to approach the earl—earl to earl, as it would be—but that would necessitate explaining far more to the Earl of Corby than might be wise, and they had no notion of the relationship between the earl and whichever Halstead had circled within his orbit.

Montague spent several more minutes considering if there was any faster way forward, but none presented itself. He was about to send Stokes a missive but then recalled that, along with the others, he had been summoned to dinner in Albemarle Street that evening.

Smiling to himself, he settled back in his chair and returned to his work—to his files and their figures.

He would tell the others of the breakthrough in person.

Chapter 17

W
hen Stokes and Barnaby walked into the drawing room, joining Penelope, Griselda, Violet, and Montague, who had arrived moments earlier, Penelope swept the gathering with an imperious eye and demanded, “Has anyone identified the murderer yet?”

When Stokes pulled a face, both negative and disgruntled, Barnaby shook his head, and Montague said, “Not yet,” Penelope paused with her gaze on Montague’s face, but then she waved her hands in a warding gesture and decreed, “No talking about the murder until after dinner. Let’s enjoy the meal first.”

No one argued; indeed, all six fell in with the suggestion, and a gentle, convivial dinner among friends followed.

Violet appreciated Penelope’s tack; even though she’d spent most of her day sorting Penelope’s correspondence, the murders had constantly lurked in the back of her mind, the question of the murderer’s identity nagging like a toothache. Penelope and Griselda had spent their day in non-investigative endeavors, Penelope attending a meeting at the British Library, and Griselda at her shop, but they, too, had confided that the murders had never been far from their minds.

By unvoiced consent, no one mentioned the murders or anything to do with the investigation until they had returned to the drawing room and settled in their now accustomed places on the sofas and chairs—Penelope and Griselda on one sofa, Montague and Violet on the sofa opposite, and Barnaby and Stokes in the armchairs flanking the fireplace, long legs stretched out before them, glasses of brandy in their hands.

“So,” Penelope finally said, “where are we now with this tiresome murderer? Have we unearthed any further clues?”

Lowering his glass, Stokes reported, “We haven’t got any further with their alibis—they’re the sort we can’t prove true or false, so they get us precisely nowhere.”

“But,” Griselda said, “alibis, the checking of them, has allowed us to confirm that Walter is not the murderer, that William did not murder either Lady Halstead or Tilly, and that none of the three ladies were actively involved in the murders.”

“Sadly,” Stokes said, “with this family, that doesn’t get us all that far. The only one of them we can definitely rule out of having any involvement in these murders is Walter. Any or all of the others, including the ladies, could have been involved as accomplices, and any of the remaining five men, Camberly included, could have been guilty of one or more of the murders.”

Penelope grimaced. “In general one assumes that it would be emotionally very difficult, and commensurately very unlikely, for a child to murder their mother, and the notion of a
number
of children conspiring to kill their mother seems even more far-fetched. In this case, however, given the lack of emotional connection between Lady Halstead and her children because of her long absences abroad . . . well, it’s possible that the normal, natural barriers against matricide might not have been there.”

“More,” Griselda softly said, “it’s possible Lady Halstead’s children, some of them, at least, might have resented a mother who put them so very far behind her husband and his career.”

Both Violet and Penelope nodded. The men soberly absorbed the insight.

After a moment, Barnaby stirred. “To return to specifics, for Runcorn’s murder, at least, the villain remains a Halstead male, so regardless of the existence of any family conspiracy, at least one Halstead male is involved.” He glanced at Montague. “Have you got any further as to who sold the shares to Corby?”

Montague nodded. “According to Corby’s man-of-business, the earl acquired the shares by way of payment of a gambling debt from a Mr. Halstead.”

“Good God, man!” Stokes sat upright. “Which one?”

But Montague had held up a staying hand. “Corby’s man-of-business, a Mr. Millhouse, knew only that Corby got the shares from a Mr. Halstead. However, Millhouse has agreed to inquire further of the earl, but it will be at least noon tomorrow before he expects to have any answer—and that, I suspect, depends on when he can get an audience with Corby.”

Stokes glanced at Barnaby.

Before Stokes could voice what was clearly in his mind, Montague continued, “Should the earl decline to identify the specific gentleman to Millhouse, then perhaps an approach at a more exalted level—for instance, Adair’s father, the Earl of Cothelstone, who is also widely known as one of the peers overseeing the Metropolitan Police—might be in order.” Montague’s lips twisted wryly. “However, experience suggests that Millhouse will have more luck, and that more rapidly. Noblemen like Corby have a tendency to believe that they should not divulge the names of those who lose to them to others of their station, but that the same prohibition does not apply to men of lesser station, such as Millhouse, especially not when, as I suspect he will, Millhouse suggests that the earl should furnish him with the name as a way of ensuring the taint of theft and consequent murder never comes anywhere near the earl’s good name.”

Barnaby chuckled. “You and your peers have a very fine appreciation of the nobility’s foibles.” He looked at Stokes. “Montague’s correct—Millhouse will have a better chance of getting that name than my father. If the pater approaches Corby, Corby will demand to know every little detail about the case before divulging the name, and if we’re trying for discretion—and we must not forget that, despite Walter’s sorry exploits, we have no evidence that Camberly, MP, is involved, nor Mortimer Halstead, Home Office official, either, much less the ladies—then telling Corby all in exchange for a name is not a good way to proceed.”

“Indeed,” Penelope said. “We do need to protect the innocents. This case is not going to end well for the family in any case, but the less speculation over who is actually guilty, the better.”

Stokes looked around the circle, then slumped back in his chair. “Very well.” After a moment, he cocked a brow at Barnaby and Penelope. “So exactly where are we in terms of identifying who, exactly, are the guilty parties here?”

Penelope promptly replied, “On two counts now—Runcorn’s murder and the man who gave Corby the stolen share certificate—we know the guilty party was a Halstead male.”

“We’ve ruled out Walter,” Violet said, “but in terms of who among the others is increasingly unlikely, I doubt William would have moved in Corby’s circles, and, truth be told, I’ve never heard that William gambles, not to any extent. He might not have a great deal of money, but at the level he’s chosen to live, he doesn’t really need much to get by.”

Stokes nodded. “Of the Halstead men, I agree that William is the least likely to have been involved.”

“That leaves us with Mortimer, Hayden, and Maurice as the most likely culprits,” Montague said.

“And as to that . . .” Barnaby shifted to better face them all. “After Montague sent word that it was Corby who now owned the shares, since I knew the earl to be a heavy gambler, I spent the day ambling around the gentleman’s clubs, those I suspected Corby frequents. Through chatting with the doormen and the concierges, I confirmed that the earl was a member and known to play at a number of establishments, and I subsequently inquired whether any Halstead or Camberly was a member of those clubs.”

“What a brilliant notion!” Penelope beamed at her spouse, then impatiently gestured. “And . . . ?”

Barnaby grinned at her. “And, as I was about to divulge, one of Corby’s favorite haunts does indeed boast a Halstead as a member.”

“Which Halstead?” Stokes demanded.

Barnaby met his eye. “The one we might have suspected—Maurice.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Violet said. “Maurice has always been the spendthrift, the profligate. He’s a peacock, and throughout the years I was with the family, everyone knew he gambled heavily.”

After a moment, Griselda said, “So does this mean Maurice is the murderer?”

Stokes grimaced. “From what I’ve seen and learned of him, he’s a devious, calculating sort—he could be behind all three killings. I wouldn’t put it past him.”

“However,” Barnaby said, much in the manner of continuing Stokes’s train of thought, “given the issues with this family, and the twists in this case, we need to be wary of leaping to conclusions, of making judgment calls rather than relying solely on facts. Our judgment, in this case, might lead us astray. The facts won’t.”

“But,” Stokes said, “we are making progress. We are closing in.” He looked at Montague. “I want to know the instant you hear from Millhouse as to which Halstead handed Corby that share certificate.” Stokes snorted. “With this family, we can’t even take it for granted that the Halstead who handed Corby the certificate was the same Halstead who owed him the gambling debt.”

Penelope frowned. “This family gives me a headache—our final breakthrough can’t come fast enough.”

“Hear, hear,” came from all the others.

Mostyn chose that moment to bring in the tea tray and as a group they turned their attention to other things, but once the tea had been consumed and everyone rose as Stokes, Griselda, and Montague prepared to take their leave, their progress with the case again claimed their minds.

“I know I shouldn’t,” Stokes said, meeting Barnaby’s gaze, “yet I’m back to thinking we’ve been making this a lot more complicated than it needs to be.” He glanced at the others, his gaze touching all their faces. “The chances are that, once we confirm that it was Maurice who gave Corby the share certificate, we’ll have our man, and he’ll prove to have committed all three murders.” Stokes met Barnaby’s gaze. “You said it earlier—the murders were all about our man protecting himself from exposure over something, and now we know that something was the debt to Corby and the theft of that share certificate to cover it.”

“From all I’ve heard over the years,” Violet said, “Maurice is barely tolerated on the fringes of the social circles to which he aspires to belong.” She glanced at the others. “If it came out that he’d gambled with Corby and, after he’d lost, had stolen from his mother to cover the debt, and, more, had then passed off a stolen share certificate to Corby . . . well, he wouldn’t be welcomed even within the gentleman’s clubs, would he?”

“Exactly,” Stokes said. “We have sound motive, and the means, now all we need is the final proof. One man, one Halstead—despite all the distractions, we don’t need more than him to account for all the crimes.”

After a moment, Barnaby nodded. “Agreed. The possibility of a family conspiracy might be there, but we’ve found no evidence that such an unholy alliance actually occurred. One man, one Halstead—and Maurice Halstead seems to be our man.”

T
he six of them massed in the front hall, those departing putting on their coats and saying their good-byes.

Griselda had brought little Megan with her when she’d arrived earlier in the afternoon. Hettie, Oliver’s nursemaid, brought the sleeping bundle down from the nursery and gently placed her in Griselda’s arms.

“There now.” Smiling, Hettie stepped back. “She was right as rain the whole time. She and Master Oliver played for a while, then out like lights, they were.”

“Good.” Tucking a fold of the blanket over Megan’s dark head, Griselda smiled at Hettie. “Thank you for watching over her, Hettie.”

Hettie beamed, bobbed a curtsy, then went back up the stairs.

Stokes, who had hovered at Griselda’s elbow, bent to check on his daughter, then, satisfied she was sleeping soundly, he straightened and turned to shake Barnaby’s hand and exchange a brief hug with Penelope, while Barnaby peeked at Megan and gave Griselda’s shoulders a gentle squeeze. “Safe journey home,” Barnaby said. He nodded to Mostyn, who opened the front door.

Stokes shook Montague’s hand. “Let me know as soon as you hear.”

“I will,” Montague assured him.

With a smile and a salute for Violet, Stokes gathered Griselda, who had already touched cheeks with Penelope and Violet, within one arm and ushered her down the steps to their small black carriage, which was waiting by the curb.

Montague watched Stokes, a powerfully built man with considerable standing, hover protectively over his wife and daughter, and acknowledged the visceral tug, the deep-seated yearning, not a jealousy but the recognition of an emptiness he now knew he needed to fill. He might be London’s most lauded man-of-business, but in the final weighing, his life would be worth very little if he didn’t make a push to secure and embrace all he’d thus far lived without.

Not out of choice so much as out of negligence. Of always having work to do.

Montague was about to turn to Violet, when Barnaby swung his way.

A chill breeze whisked through the door, and Mostyn quickly shut it.

“I have to admit,” Barnaby said, a touch of self-deprecation in his expression, “that I hadn’t truly registered that stealing the shares and having that come out might be sufficient motive for murder in and of itself, but for such as the Halsteads, with their social aspirations”—he glanced at Violet, who had drawn nearer with Penelope—“the threat of being identified as such a thief would loom exceedingly large.”

Montague nodded. He glanced around the faces. “Rest assured I’ll send word the instant I have confirmation.”

With a smile, Barnaby shook his hand; Penelope squeezed his arm, then stepped back. Leaving Montague to finally turn to Violet.

He discovered her tightening a warm shawl about her shoulders. She smiled. “Let me walk you out through the garden.”

His answering smile felt like sunshine on his face. “Thank you. I’d like that.”

With the briefest of nods to Barnaby and Penelope, he followed Violet into the garden parlor and out onto the side terrace.

They both paused on the terrace and looked up at the sky. It was chilly but crisp, a fine October night, with the scent of wood smoke on the air and a black velvet sky above.

“We’re nearly there, aren’t we?” Violet asked.

“Yes.” He offered his arm and she tucked her hand comfortably in the crook of his elbow. As he steered her down the shallow steps to the lawn, he added, “After Barnaby’s discovery, the information from Corby will merely be the final confirmation—the last piece of evidence needed to convict Maurice Halstead.”